Words
by EllenJai
Summary: Carlos has so much to regret.


**Note: Major character death, no gruesome details or anything like that. Also, this is super angst with no happiness at all anywhere. You've been warned.**

* * *

_always in a rush  
never stay on the phone long enough…_  
_it's so loud inside my head  
with words that i should have said  
and as I drown in my regrets  
i can't take back the words i never said_

* * *

_Good evening, listeners!_

_Carlos the Scientist – you all remember, him, yeah? Pretty average guy, really, but I'm sure you all know who he is – maybe even was?! Well, he has returned to Night Vale. Reports say that he appeared very suddenly, hanging in the air, near Old Woman Josie's house! How ridiculous, right? Supposedly he's been in some other dimension or something, and he's supposed to be this noble hero, and he came back hanging upside down! I'm sure it was hilarious to see. But, anyway. They, whoever they that bring me my reports are, also say that Old Woman Josie's friends, who are not angels, quickly took him down and inside. Maybe he's family or something like that. Or they probably took pity on him. Really, though, hanging upside down!_

_In other news…._

Carlos really isn't sure why he keeps listening to it. The recording is climbing quickly to the most-listened to .mp3 on his computer, and he has no idea _why. _It just makes his chest ache, makes his eyes burn with tears. But still, he listens to it, again and again, sometimes up to ten or twelve times a day.

It's the wrong voice. The wrong cadence, the wrong words, the wrong _voice. _The man in the recording – Aaron, or something, Carlos hardly remembers – he's just _wrong. _He isn't The Voice. He's _wrong. _Carlos tells himself that it's Aaron's voice by itself – wants to believe that he doesn't like his radio broadcasts because of Aaron's voice alone. But he knows that isn't it. Everyone knows that isn't it, and Carlos doesn't know why he tries to lie to himself.

Carlos knows why he hates Aaron's broadcasts, why he won't ever consider Aaron The Voice, even if he is, by title. But he _doesn't _know why he keeps listening to the stupid recording. He doesn't know why he downloaded it, why he went through hell to get permission to download it, why he listens to it almost obsessively. He's never been the masochist type; the only thing he's ever tortured himself with was sleep deprivation, and that's only ever been to get results on an experiment.

He doesn't like the ache it leaves in his chest. He hates the way it makes his eyes burn and water and itch. But still, he listens to it. Again, and again, and again. He listens to it until he can't stand it anymore, and then when he's calmed down a bit, he just listens to it again.

* * *

_Good evening, listeners!_

_So, more news on Carlos the Scientist. He's been scarce since he turned up again. Probably still embarrassed! Whatever, though, so I've been given another report. Apparently, he's been acting very strangely. The Sherriff's Secret Police have instructed us all to leave him alone to his business._

_Well, that's that I guess! On to the more important things –_

Carlos smashes the mute button on his radio much, much harder than necessary, and lets out a growl. Strangely, yeah, like he should just be – what, _normal? _He scoffs. He's unduly angry at everyone and everything today. Or, well, always, lately. He shouldn't even have his radio on. He hates Aaron's stupid, nasally voice. He doesn't do the news well, anyway, and he always cuts to the weather in the weirdest places, and the way he reads the sponsor ads is just –

Carlos takes a deep breath and unplugs his radio.

"_Carlos, it's Earl. Look, I know you told me not to call you again, but – I'm worried. I don't have a right to be worried, really – well, actually, I kind of do, since Cecil – …sorry. You know what, don't worry about calling me back. Just wanted to make sure you were still alright, ask you if you maybe wanting to come bowling with Josie and I later, but…. Never mind. Take your time. Bye."_

Carlos' gut twists, and he almost throws his phone across the room. But he can't, because if it breaks, he'll lost pictures and messages and videos that are too precious to lose. He settles on slamming the beaker that's in his other hand down on the table. It develops a small crack. He can't make himself care.

He wants to call Earl back, but he knows if he does, he'll just yell. He'll just shout things he doesn't mean. He knows Earl means the best. It's not Earl's fault he's…distant. It's no one's fault but his, really, and he supposes he could blame Cecil, but every time the thought crosses his mind, he coughs up bile.

It's not Cecil's fault, it's his. His and his alone. Everything was his fault, and he knows that, and so he has no right to shout at anyone but himself. So he doesn't call Earl back. Instead, he shuts his phone off and throws the broken beaker away.

* * *

_Carlos is running. The sand beneath his feet is slippery, looser than usual, and he keeps stumbling. He keeps stumbling, but he doesn't stop running, because he can't. He can see Cecil in the distance – he needs to get to Cecil!_

_He feels like he's running in place, but Cecil's silhouette is getting closer – just barely, but closer, and closer, and Carlos' lungs burn and his legs ache, but he has to get to Cecil. He can hear Cecil speaking, too, and he can't hear him, but he knows he needs to. Whatever Cecil is saying is of the utmost importance. He needs to get to Cecil, and fast._

_The sand starts to fall away, and he's getting further away again. He screams, but nothing comes out – Cecil is so, so close, but he still can't reach him, can't hear what he's saying._

Carlos jolts awake, a shout dying on his lips. He's covered in a cold sweat, and tangled hopelessly in the thin safety blanket he's under. Groaning, he rolls and sits up, rubbing his dry eyes. Swallowing hard, he picks up his watch – then drops it, flinching.

Swallowing again, this time against bile, he stands and turns on the light. He needs to work, he reasons. Work will take his mind off his nightmares.

* * *

_Carlos._

_My dear, dear Carlos. Perfect, beautiful, _radiant _Carlos. _

_It's been a while. A while since we spoke, and even longer since – well. That's not why I'm recording this, Carlos. I'm not petty. _

_I read that sometimes, people leave goodbyes. And I guess this is my goodbye to you, Carlos, because I need to tell you goodbye, at least, since…since I didn't get to, the first time._

_I miss you, Carlos. I miss you so, so badly. I'm sorry that I won't be able to greet you when you come home. …if you ever do come home, that is. I supposed it is your choice. Especially since – since…._

_Well, you won't have to worry about being obligated anymore. Night Vale will always be a home for you, but you no longer need to worry about _needing _to come…come back. You can stay, now, I suppose. Stay in that otherworld, with the friends you've made. I'm so glad you're not alone, Carlos. I'm so happy that you have people there to love you._

_I love you, Carlos. I love you, and goodbye. Goodbye, my sweet, darling Carlos._

Carlos supposes it's perfect, really, that it rained on this day. One day out of hundreds, and in a desert, and today, it rained. It was fitting.

He hated it.

The grass was still crunchy under his feet. It was yellow-green, barely living, dried out enough to make a soft _crrch, crrch, crrch _noise as he walked on it. The rain did nothing for the sound it made, only adding a small _squech_ to the end of the _crrch. _He coughed.

Through the rain, he could see the graveyard laid out in front of him. There weren't many graves. Not many people got buried, in Night Vale. More often than not, there wasn't a body left to bury, and the ritual was too expensive when you had no real proof of death. The thought made Carlos laugh, but it's a hard, dry laugh. There isn't any humor behind it.

The closer he got to the scattered graves, the more his heart sank.

_I love you, and goodbye._

Just the sight of it, the grave, a tall, ridiculous stone replica of a radio microphone, made Carlos' breath short. His heart took up residence somewhere near his left kidney. He stopped walking.

He didn't want to continue. If he continued, it would be real – it would be…final. Grave markers were always the final proof, the final bulldozer to any barriers of denial. Carlos didn't want to stop denying it, but he had to, he supposed. He needed to – to move on, as Earl had told him.

Carlos scoffs and trudges forward, ignoring the bile in the back of his throat. Stupid, stupid, naïve Earl.

The gravestone is even taller, and more ridiculous, up close.

Carlos barks a laugh that turns into a sob. Disregarding the rain, he falls to his knees and touches the statue, almost expecting it to be warm. Still sobbing, he traces the words etched into the stone.

**Cecil Gershwin Palmer  
Goodnight, Night Vale.  
Goodnight.**

* * *

_so many questions  
but I'm talking to myself  
i know that you can't hear me anymore  
not anymore  
so much to tell you  
and most of all goodbye  
but I know that you can't hear me any more_

_the longer I stand here  
the louder the silence  
i know that you're gone but sometimes i swear that i hear  
your voice when the wind blows  
so I talk to the shadows  
hoping you might be listening 'cos I want you to know…._

* * *

**Note: The song in italics at the beginning and end is Words by Skylar Grey.**


End file.
